Hey you. Missy lady.
I honestly wouldn't even know what to call you if I spoke to you again. Katie? That seems like a relic of a name. One I sort of claimed as mine to call you, because I didn't want you to just be "Kate" to me. I mean, I guess these days you go by the same phonetic? So maybe you liked it. I dunno.
Surely not "Kathryn"-- the name I was going to slowly try and peel away from the staining your father had applied to your birth name. I lack the privileged status in your life to try and attempt anything so presumptuous.
And any pet name is obviously, now, wildly inappropriate. I mean, I dunno. I still sometimes use them to myself, here. Because I still like to... reflect on you as ... .... I still like to think as owning a little piece of you, y'know?
But surely calling you "babe" or "love" or "doll" is not really... it's not appropriate.
So. I mean, I guess "Hey, lady" in the kind, and casually familiar kind of way will do.
How are you? It's been more than a couple months. April 22nd was when I received your last letter. I remember because I wrote a little piece of prose about it. Did you read it? Probably not. I don't think you've read any of these since the last time you told me you wouldn't. It was a sort-of-story about a dream I had. You lived in room 0422.
Anyway.
I wonder a little (sometimes a lot) about why you stopped reading. I mean, I know why you SAY you stopped reading. And I don't doubt that those reasons were heavy contributors. But I always sort of guessed-- if you (we?) are being really, openly honest with yourself-- what the other reason(s) was. I always kind of figured my writing... my letters, just became sort of... boring. Yeah? Just sort of cyclical and regurgitating the same laments and questions and nonsense theories over and over. Putting a different spin on each mechanical pitch.
I always sort of assumed you just got tired of it.
Anyway.
Hah.
I've been spending a lot of time thinking about you, lately. There was a little bit of an ebb for a while, I admit. You never dropped far out of mind, and never for very long. But lately I've been devoting some rather serious chunks of time to poring over my memories of you, and reconciling them with what I know now.
I suppose that a big part of it-- my recent retrospection-- is that it's been almost a year of entries. July 8th of 2013 is when I started writing. Slowly at first, and then with a gain in intensity until I was writing you almost every day, sometimes in multiples. I don't know why I just typed that-- you already know.
So. Yeah. I told myself that I would write to you for a year before I gave myself leave to second-guess my dedication to authoring these words for you. And, now, here we are-- the last week.
The next 4 days will all be letters, I decided. For no real reason other than I haven't written you letter-style entries in a while. I miss it, y'know? I really do. It makes my heart ache and my throat swell when I think about how much I miss you sometimes, still. Even now, as I type, I feel my sinuses thickening a little bit. I sniffle to clear them, but it's still... there? It's kind of crazy. Just... .... the physical reaction I have when I come back to this place.
Writing to you like this is easy. It's meditative. It's relaxing and I can just sort of jack an invisible wire into a port in my head and stream my words and thoughts into tiny, black, electronic characters that pop up on this screen.
I usually listen to some sort of soft and lyric-less music. Like right now.
I dunno. It just... I miss this. And I miss YOU.
There's a lot of things about you I still really miss.... Katie.
A lot a lot a lot of things.
What's funny, too, is that this is just easy. Like some facets of our relationship were, y'know?
I read an entry by someone else that said "Writing an entry every day for [x amount of time] is EXHAUSTING." And I found that a really curious claim, because I don't find it difficult, at all. Writing to you... or writing with you beside me metaphorically... it's very easy. And not exhausting at all.
But maybe I'm just using grossly different contexts in my comparison.
.... sorry. That was a tangent. WHat was I saying?
Oh, right.
I think it's finally been drilled in, over the last year, that you don't want me any more. You don't want this. Or us.
And I... have just sort of learned to accept it. Like learning how to walk with a crippled extremity? Maybe that's a crappy analogy. I dunno. I'm not very smart sometimes.
I wonder if you still think of me, now that you've cut me out, completely. I imagine you having done some serious, open-heart-surgical style shit. Just carved the rot of ME right out of it, completely. And now that the scars have healed, it's all been sort of smoothed down, just like you said it would be.
Do you still think of me, Katie?
I sort of suspect that I think of you much more than you, of me. And that's ok. It doesn't really hurt my feelings. It just sort of.... is.
You know. I look back over all of these entries-- a years worth-- and I sort of feel like I have "paid" for some (not all) of my sins. By writing to you, here. And that's an easy claim to make; absolving myself of guilt with these random piles of words. These mounds of intellectual garbage that have a rather redundant sum-total of who-gives-a-shit. But.... forgiving myself is important, too. Even if you can't. Or won't.
I think of that sometimes, too. Like, if you still hold on to the anger and the injustice. Maybe it warped a part of you that you carry around like a little gnarled piece of wood inside of you. A warped splinter. The injustice of our relationship, having shaped and defined you, now... you couldn't let it go.
That's just random speculation. And I don't really believe you're that petty.
But then, I don't think you've ever truly forgiven me, either. And quite frankly, I wouldn't even expect you to. Because I don't know that I would be deserving.
Anyway.
I'm starting to fade a little bit.
I go running tomorrow. It's Tuesday.
I still have a very great deal to say. But I still have days to say it in.
I miss you.
And I still love you.
I hope you're well. And happy. And healthy.
I hope that your life without me is strictly superior.
And I mean that with the utmost sincerity. All that I can muster in intellectual and emotional honesty.
I'll write you again tomorrow.
LessThanThree
11:04 p.m. - 2014-06-30
Recent entries:
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